


Collected Drabbles

by Young John Silver (quodpersortem)



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Feelings, Fluff, Gags, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Knifeplay, Loud Sex, M/M, Occasional poetic babbling, Pet Shop AU, Rimming, Speed dating au, Voyeurism, Walking In On Someone, corsets, cross dressing, flogging (past), jealous characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-06 13:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 8,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6756541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/Young%20John%20Silver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collected stories from Tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. only honest when it rains

**Author's Note:**

> silver/flint; any rating; "I'm only honest when it rains, / An open book with a torn out page, / And my ink's run out. / I want to love you but I don't know how."
> 
> ([original post](http://youngjohnsilver.tumblr.com/post/142652407625/silverflint-any-rating-im-only-honest-when-it))

The rain is beating down on the deck above their heads.

The men are in the forecastle, hopefully able to sleep—although Silver did see one of them take a bottle of rum inside. He elected to not say anything, their rations are plentiful and keeping the mood up during the storm is beneficial to all aboard.

This means it’s just him and Flint here, for now.

It is not a bad thing in itself, not at all—but Flint is glaring at his bookshelf again and Silver knows _why_.

The thing is, the thing—ordinarily Silver does not mind when no one is paying attention to him when he is in pain—the storm makes his leg ache all the way down to his toes, reminding him of what he has not got anymore. No eyes on him means the privacy to rub at his stump, to wince as the waves jolt his half-leg against the windowsill, sparking more pain.

Now, it just makes him feel nauseated. _Meditations_ glares to him as much as it does to Flint, and Silver knows he has no claim here, no reason to keep Flint from reaching out. Not that Flint is—reaching out, that is.

Yet it feels him rubbed raw, his skin and stomach alike torn apart by barnacles.

He tries to speak up but finds his throat too dry, even if he’s just had his ration of rum and then some.

There are little tidbits of Flint spread over the entire Captain’s hut; the Walrus has been in his care long enough that he’s left his trace. Yet, the book is the only offending item Silver has found so far.

The dark of the storm clouds looming over them has left his feelings laid bare. He feels exposed and vulnerable, so unlike his ordinarily vociferous self, and Flint notices.

“Are you alright?” he asks, looking up from his staring contest with the book. His fingers, twitching against the wood of the desk just earlier, now flatten themselves against the grain. The clouded look in his eyes is gone; Silver isn’t keen to admit to himself that the nausea in his stomach abates at Flint’s relaxing.

“Yes,” he says. And then, because he knows that Flint is well-aware of him not being quite fine, “My leg just hurts, you know? It’s the storm.”

The words he _wants_ to say are stuck in his throat. _Throw out that book_. _Look at what you have got now. Look at me._

Flint nods. He slowly makes to turn away from Silver; this is likely their last moment alone for a very long time to come, and he has the Captain’s attention _now_.

_Love me_. Instead of speaking up, he swallows back the sentiment.

He’s not sure whether Flint would appreciate it, although Silver suspects—sometimes, there is something in his Captain’s eyes that makes him think _yes_.

More than that, he is not sure if he himself can give Flint what is needed. That he may desire Flint in all ways, but may not be able to reciprocate.

That he will never be in the capacity to return any of the things he wishes from Flint, no matter how madly he wants to offer to them in moments like these.

No matter how madly in love he feels as he watches Flint traipse up and down the decks—no matter his jealousy as Flint stares at that god-forsaken book—

Silver doesn’t think he can bestow that type of fate upon them both.


	2. hall of beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> silver/flint; any rating; "I believe some of our stars will always be the same. You entered the foyer of my mind and stumbled down the hall of my begginings."
> 
> ([original post](http://youngjohnsilver.tumblr.com/post/142761470845/silverflint-any-rating-i-believe-some-of-our))

The sky is never clearer than when he’s at sea.

In London, buildings obstructed his view. In Nassau, it’s his own thoughts, his memories and feelings that find their way into his mind in a most hindering manner.

It seems that only when he is moving, Flint can think. The fresh air against his scalp, the salt coagulating on his skin, the way all food may start to taste the same but the stars look different every night.

It’s a fresh breath of air every time he inhales, every time he blinks.

When Silver boards the ship under the false guise of being a cook—Flint figures it out within days, finding the food more abysmal than when Randall was in charge. He’s not sure why he keeps him on board—doesn’t understand even after Silver leads them to despair and hopelessness.

More than once, Flint considers throwing Silver over board.

The urge deepens when there are comparisons to be drawn between Silver and Miranda—more importantly, Silver and Thomas. Things Flint does not want to think about, didn’t use to think about at sea, but now the blue eyes and black curls remind him of the things he lost.

The quick wit and the wide smile.

The feeling in his stomach, something he never thought to experience again.

It leads Flint to trusting Silver, most unfortunately—and when his worries prove to be unfounded, when Silver is touched by the deaths of Muldoon and Dobbs, it takes a turn for the worse.

He lets Silver into his head during a weak night, tells him about his past although he had sworn that no one should ever know; he must agree when Silver accurately points out that Flint’s most trusted men and women have all died.

He curses himself after and Silver must see the blame Flint puts upon himself—or maybe he had figured that out before the conversation began at all.

He must have seen it, but Flint does not see it coming when Silver edges closer—when he trails through the sand with a wince in his step to come sit next to him on the log.

The hand on his waist leaves him unnerved, but nothing shakes him as much as Silver’s lips to his own, soft and welcome even if Flint had thought before that this would never be for him again.

(After, he decides to leave Silver behind. The risks of him being at sea are too great with his improperly healed leg.

Silver hands him a note and makes Flint promise to not open it until he is at sea.

“Remember. The moon looks the same from all corners of the world. May we follow the same light to guide us, in the hopes of our future and forever reunion.”

The words mean more than he’d like for them to.)


	3. "Take. It. Off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You heard me. Take. It. Off.” Silverflint
> 
> ([original post](http://youngjohnsilver.tumblr.com/post/143010986790/you-heard-me-take-it-off-silverflint))

“You heard me, Silver,” Flint says as he returns to his cabin. “I’m not letting you outside like this.”

Silver smirks at him, infuriatingly smug and enough to get Flint’s blood boiling a little harder.

“The hat looked shit on Rackham, and it looks worse on you,” Flint mutters. 

“That _almost_ sounds like you usually enjoy the way I look,” Silver replies cheekily. “Do you, Flint?”

Flint ignores him. Instead he repeats, for the umpteenth time that morning, “Take it off.”


	4. hate to love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I wish I could hate you.”
> 
> ([original post](http://youngjohnsilver.tumblr.com/post/143011620935/silverflint-36))

After Flint has buried the treasure, neither of them feel much inclined to return to the camp just yet.

The stars are brighter out here, between the trees; more so when the fire finally dies out.

It’s Silver’s own voice that breaks through the darkness, tentative and quiet; he knows that he couldn’t say this looking into Flint’s eyes.

“I wish I could hate you, Flint. I do.”

Flint’s answering silence is enough to let Silver know he understands.


	5. hurt!flint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I almost lost you.”
> 
> ([original post](http://youngjohnsilver.tumblr.com/post/143064573765/7-for-silverflint))

When Flint is carried back to his cabin, bloodied and unconscious, the gravity of the situation does not immediately get through to Silver.

When it does, it hits him hard enough that he stumbles after Flint, leaving Billy in control of the ship and damage assessment as he drags a chair up to Flint’s bed.

He’s pale and not moving, one of the gashes red and swollen in a way that reminds Silver of his own fevers when his leg starts to fester. There’s a bowl of tepid water and a still-dry rag that he starts to use to clean Flint’s chest and arms.

After, he spends hours by his captain’s bedside. If he were a more devout man, he would have prayed.

As it is, when Flint finally opens his eyes, his heart leaps with  joy.

“Why are you here?” Flint asks him.

Silver wants to bring up a nonsensical quip; anything to lighten up the situation. 

As it is, his fingers are still threaded through Flint’s, and instead he reports, “I almost lost you.”

Flint closes his eyes again, his chest heaving with deep breaths. He does not pull away his hand.


	6. jealous!silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” 
> 
> ([original post](http://youngjohnsilver.tumblr.com/post/143064573765/7-for-silverflint))

“I don’t understand why you’d keep a book like that if it hurts you so much,” Silver casually tells Flint one evening.

He’s leafing through Meditations–and while Flint hadn’t caught him in the act before, he’d suspected Silver had been touching the book without his consent.

“I don’t understand why that should matter to you.”

Silver shrugs. “It doesn’t _matter_ , I was just wondering.”

He still has the book in his hands, open on the page with Thomas’ declaration of love. There’s something in Silver’s eyes that puts dread into Flint’s stomach, an uncomfortable knowing feeling.

“You only wonder about things that affect you personally,” Flint eventually concludes.

Silver looks up, puts aside the book and shrugs again. His knuckles are white where he’s gripping the wooden ledge of the bookcase, as though he would like to defend himself but knows that he can’t.

Things click. Silver’s urge to know more about Thomas, and to a lesser degree Miranda. His pushing Flint into conversations about his past loves and current trysts, his feelings.

“Silver, are you jealous?”

Silver looks at him. His mouth forms a _no_  he doesn’t say. His head bobs slightly, a scared little  _yes_  Flint recognises as a thing of firsts.

He can’t say he minds. “Don’t be. That was past.”

“What is now, then?”

“Whatever you want it to be,” Flint tells him. He means it.


	7. make up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The paint’s supposed to go where?”
> 
> ([original post](http://youngjohnsilver.tumblr.com/post/143221674475/19-silverflint-just-because-i-wanna-see-what-you))

“The paint’s supposed to go _where_?” 

“On your eyes, Silver,” Flint tells him patiently.

“No, fuck that,” Silver groans as he gets up, and promptly trips so that Flint has to catch him. The corset is too tight on his ribs and the dress is bunching around his legs and–suddenly he understands why women can’t do things. It’s their _clothes_.

“You may have long and pretty hair,” Flint tells him (and it doesn’t sound like a compliment somehow, fuck him), “but you also have stubble. Max can show you how you put more of an accent on your eyes.”

“By wearing face paint!” Silver exclaims. “You didn’t tell me this when you had me agree to do the job!”

“And you didn’t tell me you weren’t actually a cook when I initially hired you,” Flint shrugs.

“I hate you, you know?” John spits at his captain.

Flint simply shrugs. “Just know that you look good in that dress.”

(It’s true. The face paint does make him look less masculine in his face. Silver _hates_  it when other people are right, but it’s absolutely worst when it’s Flint.)


	8. jealous!flint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> silver/flint-jealous!flint. fuming and shutting himself in his cabin and avoiding silver. silver is done with flint being an asshole and confronts him about it.
> 
> ([original post](http://youngjohnsilver.tumblr.com/post/143221674475/19-silverflint-just-because-i-wanna-see-what-you))

John always looks forward to the night.

Night is when the deck is quiet, with few man on watch. When the stars come out, and when the cloying heat of the sun is swallowed by the ocean, gently shaking the ship beneath them.

Night is when he will meet with Flint, look at the last of the sun’s reflection before it drops beneath the waves. When voices don’t sound as harsh, when the other men nearby turn their eyes away if John should choose to lean in a little too close, wondering if he should press a gentle kiss to the beginning of the smile he can see before deciding that he does not want Flint to push him away.

Flint is still below deck, so instead John spends his time talking to one of the new men.

His name is Clem and he joined after the surrendering of a small vessel belonging to the British Navy. Now his clothes are tattered, a ghost of their former glory; his hair is long and not held together with fancy silk anymore and his beard is growing in thick. He is undeniably, universally handsome.

They are standing close so they won’t have to speak too loud to overpower the waves; Clem is recounting a story of almost getting caught in an act of sodomy with a fellow sailor and John is laughing at the faces Clem pulls when Flint finally shows up.

“I am sorry, Clem,” he says, “but I need to discuss something with our Captain.”

Clem nods, a glint in his eyes that tells John he knows exactly what this type of discussion is about—even if  he would not be quite right.

However, when John turns to join Flint, he only manages to see him stalk to his cabin, closing the door behind him with more force than necessary.

-

John doesn’t go after him. He knows Flint has his moods—knows that his temper was what led to his becoming a pirate Captain and a damn good one at that.

He figures it’ll just be tonight, and that Flint is going to be there the next evening, as usual.

Even though he never spends the full night with Flint, and certainly never sleeps in the Captain’s cabin, even though his own hammock is just that—John feels more alone that night than he has in a while.

Perhaps, he thinks, it would have been impossible to miss something before—when all was well. Now he fears he might forever long for company to the likes of Flint’s.

-

The next evening proceeds much the same way. John is on deck, and as Clem is on watch again, he tells him some stories about the orphanage. It’s only casual banter, and he is ready to say goodbye even before Flint shows—but Flint does not even meet John’s eyes this time, just makes a beeline for his cabin.

The door is bolted when John tries to enter. It is all a bit curious, and although there’s a nagging thought on John’s mind, he quickly dismisses it as impossible.

It couldn’t be, because nothing like that has happened—and not for lack of wishing on John’s part.

-

After a week of being ignored, however, John has had enough.

The third and fourth days he had waited on his own, regardless of Clem waving him over again. It hurt John a little, having to avoid the contact, but he needed to see how Flint would respond.

On one occasion, John did not see the Captain reappear at all and he figured he must have gone to his cabin either before John came up or long after John had left the deck.

Flint isn’t in his cabin when John enters it, so he waits sitting in the windowsill he once spent weeks recovering.

The moment the Captain enters, his face falls.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks.

John is genuinely shocked by the question—it is something he had not anticipated whatsoever. He’d thought that Flint had enjoyed their conversations, but clearly not so much.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here? I am your Quartermaster, and we have not spoken about anything in the past week.”

“You gave your advice only this morning,” Flint shrugs. And _yes_ , John had, but that’s not what he means.

“I missed our conversations, though,” he tells him. “The ones we used to have at night. You know, the ones where you’d actually be laughing instead of being a moody fuck.”

Flint just huffs as he goes to sit at his desk. “I have work to do, and you have other matters to attend to.”

John frowns at him. “No, I do not.”

“Clem is waiting for you on deck,” Flint tells him, the words directed at his logbook as he starts to dip his pencil into the ink.

John remembers his initial thought to Flint ignoring him, that first night he’d been laughing with Clem. And it’s true that they’ve been gravitating towards each other—but that’s because Clem reminds John of how he once was, free and able bodied and without any of the worries he has now. Not because he’s interested.

By _God_. Flint is jealous.

“Why are you mentioning Clem? He knows I spend my evenings with you and instead of letting me explain you immediately throw a tantrum.”

“Clem joined our ship because he committed sodomy and the Navy wanted him hanged,” Flint says from between gritted teeth. “It is clear he is chasing your tail.”

That startles a laugh from John. “I’d never thought I would see the great and feared Captain Flint jealous of a new boy on board of our ship.”

He watches the way Flint’s shoulders grow tense, the way he hunches over the desk even more. “Do not have any assumptions about me that you cannot prove.”

John laughs, trying to diffuse the situation, lighten it up. “I would think that your reaction right here is proof enough.”

The words linger between them for long moments, until Flint finally gets up.

“Leave, please,” is all he says. When John does not immediately get up, Flint follows up with, “That is an order.”

He still doesn’t get up, waiting until Flint comes over to him. There is no immediate danger here—and there certainly is no threat to John’s life. It leaves him reckless, with his stomach fluttering a little more with every step Flint nears.

“What else would you like to order me to do, then?” John asks, leaning back. “Would you order me to seek out Clem? Kiss him?” He can see the nervous twitch in Flint’s eye muscles, the way his jaw locks under his skin. “Or is this the time where perhaps you should admit to me that you want me to kiss _you_ instead?”

Flint still does not respond, but John can see the thoughts behind his eyes. Trying to figure out if this is one of John’s ploys, if he is doing this only to draw out Flint.

Finally, John stands up. Flint seems to think that he is to make his retreat but instead John steps in, closes some of that distance still between them. “Because in all honesty, while I would not oppose to kissing Clem under different circumstances—at this moment, the second proposition is much preferable.”

“You want to kiss me?” Flint huffs, the grooves between his eyebrows deepening. “Why are you spouting bullshit at me, Silver. You know I won’t kill you.”

“I know you won’t, that’s why I am telling you this. I missed our conversations every night—I genuinely did. I thought we were friends, and I have to see, I feel quite hurt at you ignoring me.”

It’s a terrible thing to say, because John knows that this is exactly what will get to Flint.

“You were ignoring me first,” Flint responds. There is the petulant undertone of a twelve-year-old boy in his voice, only this time John suppresses his laugh at that and instead focuses on the more serious matter—this thing between them.

“I was not ignoring you,” he tells Flint. “I was talking to Clem because you were taking your time in coming up from the bowels of the ship, and I do not like being bored. You should know that.” And then, “And also, because I have to befriend the crew, don’t I?”

It’s true and there is nothing Flint can say to refute that.

“So, when I saw you come up I was still laughing at a retelling of one of Clem’s stories, and then started to bide my goodbyes.” Flint’s shoulders finally relax a little. “For what it is worth, I had been looking forward to our conversation all day.”

“Catullus, was it not?” Flint finally gives in, softening with John’s coaxing words.

“I do believe so,” he nods. “Although, maybe there is something I’d rather be doing.”

Flint still seems wary, seems to think that John would rather punch him in his face than kiss him.

Flint is very, _very_ wrong on that account.

“Don’t make assumptions that you cannot prove,” John mutters with a soft smile as he leans closer to Flint.

He makes his movements deliberate—the hand on Flint’s shoulder, the finger trailing down his jaw before cupping his chin, pulling him down a little to make it easier to kiss him.

It’s soft and does not last very long, but John does feel the shiver that runs through Flint’s body as he licks over Flint’s lips, does taste a hint of rum beneath the imprint of the ocean that everything on the ship is covered with, does note that Flint gives no inclination to want to move away from this kiss.

“Do not be jealous of Clem,” John whispers against Flint’s lips after the kiss. “There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

Flint doesn’t respond, but the tension has left his body and the frown is gone from his brow.

Then—“Perhaps we should bolt the door?”

Flint’s startled laugh takes the pressure from John’s chest. Everything is well, again.

-

When Clem sees the mark Flint left on John’s neck the next evening, he laughs and says, “Well done, Silver. Didn’t think you’d ever get around to that.”

Maybe Clem is more perceptive than John thought. He doesn’t mind—but he does resolve to find Clem a bedpartner before they disembark in Nassau.


	9. Skeleton Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m not entirely sure what this is, beyond a general “I am having a shit day so John deserves to have a shit day (night) as well”. Also a character study, I guess? Oh, and Clem is back!
> 
> Warnings: angst, a crying fit that could be bordering on a panic attack…

John falls to the floor with a loud thump, evoking the grumbling of several men in hammocks surrounding his.

The wood hurts his stump leg, the jolting pain shaking him fully awake in a matter of seconds. Clem is leaning over the side of his hammock to check up on him.

Blinking the tears from his eyes, John grabs the coarse wool of his hammock and pulls himself upright.

He’d needed to go for a piss, and while getting out of bed he simply forgot that his leg wasn’t there anymore for him to depend on.

He ignores Clem when he asks how John is doing, instead grits his teeth as he pushes his still-sore stump into the prosthesis. It doesn’t fit very well—the leather chafes and gives him blisters, but he’d be damned if he was going to complain about that.

The outside air is easier to breathe in than the air in the forecastle.

John goes for his piss, ignoring the maelstrom of thoughts in his mind. He ignores the limp, and the blisters. Ignores the feeling he has to look down, just to check that he didn’t set is left foot afire because rationally he knows there is no leg anymore at all.

On the way back, he almost slips on the stairs and ends up with his heartbeat ringing loudly in his ears, rabbitting on furiously as he tries to tell his body that it’s okay, you won’t die.

His breathing won’t calm down even when his heart settles a little, and he stumbles to a darker corner of the deck, settling down between some barrels so he’s hidden from immediate vision. The sky is clear and the sea is empty, so there aren’t many men on guard duty tonight.

Even if they did notice John, which he thinks not, they do not appear to give much of a shit about the fact that their quartermaster sits huddled in the shadows.

His breath still won’t come evenly, and soon the tears he’d pushed back surface too.

He wishes he had a bathtub or even the ocean at his disposal, any way to dive underwater and wash away the salt from his cheeks, but instead he wipes at his eyes with his sleeves. His breath comes with hitches and heaves, louder and louder until he has to smother the sounds with his hands.

It isn’t long before his skin feels rubbed raw, even the gentle breeze harsh against his flushed cheeks as he tries to wipe away the wetness before anyone happens upon him.

The intense feeling of being broken, and worse—never being whole again—suffocates him, pulls him under and under until that is all he is, his entire identity swallowed by his own uselessness. Memories of Muldoon surface almost immediately, the hopelessness growing more and more intense until he finds himself lying on the floor, cradling his legs to his body with his arms as though he is trying to hug himself but he is failing miserably at feeling comforted.

John doesn’t know how long it takes before the feeling abates; he is lost in the moment for what feels like centuries, an ongoing process of feeling worthless and remembering why that is so true, all while the pain in his leg stays—even after he finally pushes away the iron leg, the reminder on his body to make complete what will never be again.

By the time he runs out of tears, he feels nauseated and weak, with a dry mouth and his skin feeling as though the sun touched upon it, burning too hot and too pained.

But there is air in his lungs again at last, not the terrible sadness that suffocated him for so long. His limbs feel tired but not unpleasantly so, and after a while he gathers the courage to look at his prosthesis again—to attach it to his stump.

The skin looks fine, if a little reddened in some places. The scar has healed over neatly by now, and most blisters are gone, his skin quickly hardening from the friction every day.

And after he sneaks some fresh water from the load, rinsing his skin and flushing his mouth with it, he does feel a little better.

After that, he returns to his hammock again. The forecastle is quiet, and beyond a few men stirring as John makes his way past them, no one wakes up.

Good. The fewer witnesses there were to bear his moments of weakness, the better.


	10. pet shelter fluff

It had been Thomas’s idea, for James to start working at the pet shelter. He and Miranda agreed that it would be a stress relief.

By the time the car crash happened, James had already found his place at the shelter. It’s small, not well-visited at all, but they care well for their pets and have days where James takes the van to primary schools in the circumference, just to talk to children about why adopting a pet from a shelter is better than getting a pet from a breeder.

Now it’s the only place that reminds him of them, the way that their last gift to the place earned them a photo on the wall. It has since been renamed Hamilton’s Home for Lonely Pets. James is not a volunteer anymore, he is employed full-time and pretty much single-handedly runs the place; has done so, ever since Mrs. Potts left as she got too old.

One of the new volunteers is called Silver. It’s the only name they know him by, and James suspects he may be homeless. More often than not, he is wearing the same clothes; the same dark circles under his eyes.

Mrs. Potts still drops by sometimes, and when she finds James staring at Silver playing with the cats in the play pen, she tells him, “He fits right in with the strays, doesn’t he?” James soundlessly agrees. “Take care of him, will you?”

And so James ends up sharing his soup with Silver (without telling him he already had his fill, because somehow he thinks that that type of generosity might not go down well with the man). Little by little, he peels away the layers, finds that Silver does have a roof over his head but little else, comes from a life of theft and poverty after his parents abandoned him and James thinks–James feels–

His heart aches at the same time his stomach twirls when Silver lets the cats crawl all over him, licking and scratching at his skin and clothes, giving his all and regardless of all his hardship he is able to laugh; able to teach James that even if all else seems lost–there is hope to be found.

Silver must notice too. He asks about the Hamiltons and James explains the story to him, from the beginning and without omissions. 

Afterwards, Silver smiles at him–with compassion, not mirth or glee. 

The next day, he asks James for a new name tag. It reads John Silver, and then he pulls James up by his hand–gently twinning their fingers together–to go feed the animals, then find them some homes.

(With John by his side, the amount of animals being adopted rackets up, and the day that just for once the entirety of Hamilton’s is without an animal is the day John kisses James. James responds in kind.)


	11. speed dating au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speed dating after being single for a while AU

John hasn’t ever dated someone for longer than a few months.

He finds himself tired of people easily, too accustomed to see people leave to really feel a connection to anybody. He knows he leaves them vulnerable to his own exploitation; it’s too easy to manipulate someone into thinking they like him.

It’s all pretty depressing, but he figures it’s his own fault.

What is not John’s fault, however, is this bloody speed-dating event.

It’s at a small Irish pub, serving Guinness in large pints, with a crowd of older men towards the back sipping heartily at their tarry liquor. No one is smoking, but it isn’t hard to imagine the smell, not in the dim light here.

There are only a few other people who showed up. John had only gone in under the assumption it would be a blind date, something a co-worker set up for him. As it turns out, Max signed him up.

She’s not here, but after complaining to her about it she had only replied with a winky face.

It’s a mixed crowd, mostly because there isn’t an even number of women and men present. John doesn’t mind—he’s not interested anyway.

The first girl talks slowly and doesn’t understand his jokes. The second girl is feisty and John enjoys her company—but it turns out that she’s taken, “I have a girlfriend, I just wanted to meet new people.” Then there’s a man who complains about being friend zoned all the time, and John can’t fault the girls for that—he looks unkempt with sweat stains under his arms.

The fourth person is a man who only introduces himself as Flint. John tells him, “Then you can just call me Silver, I guess.”

The man doesn’t seem amused, throwing back the last of his rum and immediately ordering a new one.

“Why are you here?” he asks then. “You don’t look like you have trouble finding a date.”

John shrugs. “My co-worker set me up for it.”

Flint’s expression immediately relaxes a little, although John is sure that it’s involuntarily—subconscious. “She’s not named Eleanor by any chances, is she?”

John snorts when it registers. “No, she’s not. But Max is her girlfriend, right?”

“Fucking hell,” Flint curses, and John shouldn’t be staring at a ginger man a decade or so older than him participating in some bloody speeddate event and feel a ping of want course through his stomach—but that is exactly what happens.

“So,” he starts. “How do you know her?”

The story that follows is long and winding, but John finds himself laughing along with Flint—genuinely, for once, not simply to appear friendly and then use him for free drinks and anything else.

No, this is company he enjoys. The way Flint speaks makes John want to see how far he can push him, see if Flint would even fall for any of his ploys; when he tells Flint he is handsome, Flint doesn’t take the bait—and neither does he when John tries to swindle him out of a second free drink. “Don’t think I forgot it’s your turn to pay.”

By the time the bell rings, ten minutes later, neither of them moves from their place.

When John tells Flint he needs a breath fresh air and makes for the back entrance, Flint does pick up on the underlying message and follows him out.

The alley is narrow and deserted, and right next to the garbage container, John finds himself pressed up against the wall by Flint, his hands on John’s hips as they kiss. It’s easy to curl his own arms around Flint’s shoulders, thrust his dick against the thigh Flint provides—

So easy, too, to feel hurt the moment Flint steps back and clears his throat.

“I—“ he mutters, looking John over from head to toe. “I wasn’t going to do this.”

“Alright,” John finds himself saying, suddenly placid. He does not want to stop talking to Flint—it had been good before, and he’s sure that the sex would be splendid.

“No, I meant,” Flint starts, stops, then tentatively continues again. “I don’t do one night stands.”

“Do you think that is all that I want?” John blurts out. And it is, that is exactly what he normally wants and so Flint is not wrong but—

“Don’t you?”

“Well,” John sighs, sagging back against the cold brick behind his back. “Usually, yes. But I suppose I would not be opposed to giving you my number, mister Flint.”

“James,” Flint—James smiles at him.

“James, then. I’m John, by the way.”

Flint rolls his eyes. “I know, it does say so on your name tag.”

-

Max laughs at him heartily when she finds out, and tells him, “I know you would get along.”


	12. kink: corsets

Silver doesn’t know why he enjoys it.

It’s a bit strange–or rather, it edges far too close on bizarre for him to feel completely comfortable with it. It is not even that he would like to be a woman; there is too much hassle, and walking in heels has never been his forte.

He just really, really likes the way the corset looks on him. How it shapes his body–not like a woman’s, but not quite like a man’s either. The pale blue is a good contrast to his skin, and a good match to his eyes.

The bones dig into his skin and he can’t quite breathe freely, even though the corset has not been fastened, but it feels fantastic.

Enough so, to lie down on the bed and pull out his cock, observing the contrast between the light coloured corset and the dark hair that curls up beneath it, the way his dick is flushed red–rubbing himself off with one hand while stroking the corset with the other.


	13. kink: voyeurism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> full ask: _hmmmmmm, walking in on someone masturbating AND/OR accidental voyeurism_

Flint walks into his cabin without a second thought.

Of course he does, the space belongs to himself–even if he knew Silver was resting on his bed because his leg was playing up again.

Now, he wonders if that is the reason at all, because Silver is not at all resting.

He is nude on Flint’s bed, stroking his cock and drawing shaky breaths as he slides his other hand over his neck and down his chest. There’s a small puddle of precome on his belly, glistening in the setting sun.

He does not even seem to have noticed Flint, with his eyes closed and apparently quite gone into his fantasies.

Flint knows he should turn around and walk away, pretend that this has never happened. Or perhaps he should get cross with Silver for defiling his bed.

Instead he finds himself incapable of moving. His own cock is throbbing in his breeches as he watches Silver’s motions become more and more desperate, his hips pushing up into his hand, his gasps turning to little keening moans.

When he comes, Flint finally breaks stature, making a high noise in the back of his throat that draws Silver’s attention.

Silver seems unperturbed, smiling up at Flint lazily before shrugging. Then his gaze falls down to the front of Flint’s trousers, and he pushes himself up a little.

Raises an eyebrow.

“Feel free to take care of that,” he tells Flint, his voice still breathy and unstable. “Just bolt the door, please.”


	14. kink: knife play

The knife pressed to Silver’s neck should make his heart race with fear.

No. It does, it is rabbiting fast and he’s absolutely terrified; Flint’s eyes are murderous and he is afraid that with one wrong word, his throat will be slit.

Which is why it makes absolutely no sense that his cock is rock-hard.

He keeps quiet, tries to breathe and show Flint with his expression that he truly is sorry. But he has to adjust his breeches, the discomfort growing and growing, and when he shifts Flint looks down.

His expression changes minutely–Silver sees it happen only because they are so close together.

Then the blade makes contact with his skin. Just enough to leave a shallow cut, and to make Silver’s dick twitch.

Flint trails the knife down, the trail it leaves cold except for the places where it nips Silver’s skin as he tears open Silver’s shirt.

He is a little afraid of what Flint will do when he gets to Silver’s breeches–they are the only decent pair he has–but by that time, a lot of the murderous rage has seeped from Flint’s stature and instead he unbuttons Silver’s trousers. 

Instead of touching his dick, he shoves down Silver’s clothes in one go, leaves them to pool around his ankle, and pressing the knife to the sensitive inside of Silver’s thighs, Silver proceeds to come harder than he has possibly ever in his life.


	15. kink: flogging (h/c)

“Christ, what have they done to you?”

Silver can’t help the words when he sees Flint in his cabin, hunched over on his bed. 

The doctor’s already dropped by, but the welds on Flint’s back are still raised and burning red, and he was struck hard enough several times to draw blood.

Flint doesn’t respond, even though the shiver in his limbs tells Silver that the captain must be in pain.

Silver assumes that the wounds have not been cleaned yet; the water is clear and otherwise he would have had a dressing on them. So he does the only thing he can think of: to sit down on the bed as well, grabbing a cloth and gently dabbing away the blood.

Silver makes sure to keep his touches light and careful, like whispers on Flint’s skin that hopefully make him hurt less. 

Flint suffers through it without a single word.


	16. kink: gags

Silver focuses on how the scarf grows damp from his breath first.

It doesn’t take long before the cambric soaks through, the cloth wetting the corners of his mouth uncomfortably.

There is no tearing under the pressure of his teeth, not even when Flint finally sinks down on him. All the sound he makes sounds muffled, even his moans when Flint speeds up.

And the gag allows for no chance to beg Flint for more, to let him come, to give him any kind of relief after Flint rises from him and leaves his cock exposed to the cool air.

Flint doesn’t let him–not for another hour or so.


	17. kink: loud sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> full ask: being loud during sex? ⊂(▀¯▀⊂)

John had always imagined Flint to be quiet, exerting self control in the bed room the way he does with any type of positive emotion. The only moments he has really seen Flint lose it, so far, were moments of fury–even that time Gates died.

He’d thought that Flint would use sex the way he does everything else: functionally, to relieve tension or to keep himself from getting distracted by his sex drive. Not for pleasure, because John knows–Flint does not grant himself any kind of good feeling in his life.

But now that he’s lying between Flint’s legs, cock sliding into his slick and tight arse, he can hear Flint is not even trying to bite back the moans.

He is not closed off either–stroking his fingers through John’s hair, tucking the strands behind his ears (even though that is useless, they fall right back into his face) and staring into his eyes. It does things to John that he would rather not think about, even if he can feel every single bit of emotion in his innards.

When he starts to move faster, Flint spreads his legs wider and arches his back, showing off the glory of his pale, freckled chest, his tightened nipples, the way his cock is slowly dripping liquid into the ginger hair between his legs.

John finds himself swept along in the fury of the moment, this storm, an onslaught of feelings that he knows not how to control so he allows himself to let go as well.

But where John bites down on the skin of Flint’s chest, licking and sucking and bruising, Flint shouts into the air without restraint.

It is that, Flint’s assent of how good this feels, Flint’s comfort with letting John (and everybody else) know, that does John in in the end.

And ever after he has climaxed, softening inside of Flint as he starts to pull on Flint’s cock, Flint keeps it up.

He comes with a roar, and for a moment John sees that untameable beast, the wild and murderous animal inside.

Then, the calm amidst the storm when Flint places his hand on John’s face again and draws him into a tender, tender kiss.


	18. kink: rimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explicitly explicit!

It is their first time.

Not their first _fuck_ , of course. But it is the first time Flint has rented them a room, on the edge of a foreign port, with a sprawling view of the countryside and a bed that could fit four.

But it’s only Silver, half-asleep amidst the linen sheets after his bath. He is on his stomach, legs slightly spread, his soft dick pointed down and resting visibly between his legs. His arse is paler than the rest of his body, and there are birth marks scattered across his back that make Flint think of a clear night at sea.

He keeps his movements slow and silent as he gets up from the chair he had been resting in–he too had fallen asleep in the midday heat, amidst birdsong and the quiet rustle of the trees around the house, the sea not much farther off. The book lies on the floor, and he leaves it there.

Silver looks gorgeous like this, his face relaxed–and Flint kisses him awake, tender presses of his lips to Silver’s cheek, his mouth, the soft spot behind his ears he has to keep the hair away from to reach.

He rouses slowly as Flint presses himself up behind him, enjoying the touch of their naked bodies together–clean, for once, and in full daylight.

“Mmm,” Silver hums. “I did’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s alright,” Flint mutters in response. He can feel Silver shift a little, settling with his legs a little wider before grinding his arse against Flint’s hardening cock.

Flint thrusts back against the smooth skin, as slow as he can, and listens to Silver’s gasped breath.

It’s a clear invite for more, but Flint is not willing to let this go the way it usually does.

Instead he draws away from Silver, stroking his hands over the dry shoulders and down Silver’s strong back. Silver is pushing back his arse again, begging for more as he starts to slowly rut against the sheets, his cock swelling to full hardness between his legs.

Flint takes a moment to circle the head with his thumb, this time drawing a moan from Silver, before he presses himself up and crawls to kneel between Silver’s legs.

When Silver tries to flip around, clearly expecting Flint’s mouth on his dick, Flint stops him.

It is only now that Silver opens his eyes, blinking at Flint from over his shoulder. There’s a trace of confusion on his face, still blurred by sleep and the relaxed atmosphere, as Flint starts to push his thighs further apart.

He does not complain, however. Flint is not sure how much experience Silver has, sexually, although he is clearly by no means a virgin. His readiness to accept whatever Flint will offer to him could just as well be trust, or eagerness to learn.

Oh, and how Flint will teach him–how he knows that no one has ever shown Silver anything _quite_  like this.

He moves in with ghosting kisses over Silver’s back. The rustle of the pillow tells him Silver has moved to lie back down again.

Then he kisses Silver’s arse, biting down at the crease where the swell of it meets his thigh and licking over the reddening skin. He can tell it is moving Silver, his breathing deepening.

Finally, he uses his hands to spread Silver’s cheeks, putting one of his most intimate parts on display. Flint can see the tension in Silver’s muscles, a sudden stillness to his posture even as he does not protest.

The first lick releases all of that tension, with Silver uttering a hearty “Oh _fuck,”_ before shoving his arse back into Flint’s face.

Flint tries to suppress the laugh but it is no use, letting his breath pulse against the now-damp skin. 

Then he dives back in, giving Silver little licks with the tip of his tongue interspersed with more wide strokes that he uses the width of his tongue for. It does not take very long at all before Silver is trembling under Flint’s hands and mouth in a way he never has before, and his own hands are growing tired from keeping Silver spread open and accessible.

He pulls back, and Silver does complain with a lazy groan and a hand touching Flint’s cheek, but Flint shushes him and then helps him up on his knees.

This time around, he gives his all. Rubbing raw the skin of Silver’s arse with his beard before smoothing it over with his lips, prodding at Silver’s hole with the tip of his tongue, and finally slipping in a finger that he continues to lick around.

He needs his other hand to balance himself but he can Silver reach down for himself, his shoulders resting on the bed and face pressed into the pillow as he moans when he finally gets his hand around himself.

It is around the time that Flint substitutes his finger with his tongue, fucking Silver just like that, that Silver trembles apart and squeezes around Flint’s tongue.

The _slap-slap-slap_  of his hand on his cock changes into a wet and more pronounced sound as he spills his seed onto the bedding, all the while still grinding himself back against Flint’s face.

Flint continues for a little while after Silver is done, only stopping when Silver stretches his body and lies back down on to the bed, blinking up at him.

He smiles slowly, beckoning Flint closer.

Flint follows easier, accepting John’s kiss and spreading his legs a little wider as John pushes him to his back, his hand trailing over his already tight balls and clearly sensing that Flint will need to climax soon.

He uses his hand effectively, no teasing at all and still wet with his own slick. Flint comes within a matter of minutes, heaving breaths into John’s mouth as he lacks the coherence to kiss, feeling swallowed whole by the overwhelming _love_  he feels right then.

After, they spend a brief time cleaning each other and wiping the worst off the sheets before Flint settles back against the headboard with the book in his hand, and Silver presses himself up against his side, kissing his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says.

It’s not three words, but this is good enough for Flint.


	19. fluffy kiss

Silver can’t sleep.

His leg is aching tonight, and the weather is too still to bring on the waves that would normally rock him to sleep. His ration of rum is hardly enough, so instead he pulls on his iron leg and carefully makes his way to the deck.

Perhaps a breath of fresh air will do the trick—it wouldn’t be a first.

When he gets to the top deck, he finds it completely deserted apart from Flint. There’s a man up on the quarterdeck, and another in the crow’s nest.

Flint is leaning his forearms on the ridge of the ship, looking up at the sky. The moon brightens everything and reflects on the ripple of the waves, and Silver understands—the view is quite breathtaking.

He walks up to Flint, not even trying to be quiet anymore. Flint won’t mind anyway—not even when John moves to stand by his side, their upper arms brushing together.

Flint’s exhale is audible, and John looks over to see his eyes close.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks. Flint shakes his head.

“No. You couldn’t either?”

“Mhmm,” John agrees. “Too hot inside.” Flint snorts, likely because he knows the joke John is about to make. “Not that it’s much cooler here, of course.”

Flint wraps an arm around John’s waist, drawing him even closer—bolder, covered by the dark of night. Instead of replying, saying that John should shut it, his beard brushes over John’s forehead before he presses a kiss to the skin.

It’s— _they_ are so very new, enough still that even this contact leaves John a weak to his knees. It is easy to relax into Flint’s touch, finding comfort in the presence by his side. Enough that his body signals that it is time to go sleep after all.

He can’t suppress the yawn and Flint chuckles, twisting John so that they are standing face to face.

“Do you want to rest in my cabin?” Flint asks, already closing in on John. John can feel the warm breath on his face, fighting the temptation to close his eyes quite yet.

Instead of responding—John’s answer will be a full and resounding _yes_ and Flint knows that—John nods.

They both stall for a moment when their lips only touch, Flint’s hands settling gently on John’s sides. His thumbs rub his skin, warm even through the fabric, as he coaxes open John’s lips with his tongue.

It doesn’t take long then before the kiss deepens, Flint’s beard rubbing against John’s in a tingly-pleasant way, everything else around them fading out as Flint presses his hand firmly to John’s lower back and pushes their bodies together.

John doesn’t know how long they stand like that, in the sultry night air, before Flint finally pulls away.

“Let’s get some sleep, alright?”

John nods, pressing another close-mouthed kiss to Flint’s lip before drawing away.

“Yeah, let’s.”


End file.
